by Ginger Scott
“Ha,” I snicker. “You’re half right. Soccer camp. And yes, it was the worst. I hate forced icebreakers. You?”
“Well, I’m not exactly built for square dancing,” he says with a slight shrug, gesturing to the circles of people grouped out on the gym floor, all linking arms, walking in circles, and giving each other these uncomfortable-looking back massages. “You should be out there, though. You might meet someone.”
“I’m good here,” I say, letting my smile linger in a way I hope like hell looks sexy from his perspective. His pause signals that it might.
“So, Cass Owens is a soccer player, huh? You mentioned that during our workout. You still play?” he asks.
“Gave it up,” I shrug. “It was a high-school thing for me.” I stay away from the details, but he watches me closely as I speak, and I get the sense he’s trying to tell if I’m bluffing with my words. I’m not—not entirely, at least. I did give it up, and it was a high-school thing. But I miss it. My stupid body doesn’t like that kind of exertion, though, and even if it could handle it, my parents’ marriage couldn’t take me rebelling against what makes my mother comfortable. So the deal was I get to study exercise in college, but my shin guards and soccer cleats get hung up for good.
I look out at the circles of people and catch Rowe’s attention. I’m pleased to see she’s right next to Nate. Paige is on the other side of the gym. It’s not that I’m rooting against my sister, but I just feel compelled to root for Rowe in this. Nate seems like a good guy, and Rowe reminds me of me. And I guess I want to know one of us can get the prince in the end.
“It’ll happen again. Just so you know,” Ty says, his voice bringing me back from my trance.
“What, me? Soccer? I doubt it,” I say, not doing a very good job at masking the sadness in my response. Ty’s eyes stay on mine as I try to work my lips back into a natural-looking smile. His mouth pushes into a tight line as he draws in a deep breath and slowly starts to nod his head.
“I was talking about me trying to kiss you. But now, I sort of feel like a dick, so…” he says raising his brow and clapping his hands together in his lap. “Yeah, uh…hey, I know. How about I just help you get back into soccer-shape instead, and we’ll see about walk-on tryouts in a few months?”
I’m not sure what I’m struck by more—the fact that he’s so hell-bent on kissing me again, or the fact that he thinks he can get me back out on the field. I start to smile and open my mouth to respond when I hear a few people scream in front of us and turn to see Nate lifting Rowe in his arms, then laying her flat on the floor.
“Shit! I think she just passed out!” Ty says, pushing forward, but stopping before the thick crowd of onlookers. I work my way in and urge people to give her space. Her eyes are already blinking, but she seems disoriented.
“She’s totally faking,” Paige says behind me.
“I don’t think so,” I say in return, watching my new friend have a full-blown panic attack on the gym floor. It takes several seconds for Rowe to realize she’s safe, and after she comes to, we lift her to stand. Nate is glued to her side the entire walk back to our dorm.
“Drinks in our room?” Ty asks everyone, but his eyes are on me. I shouldn’t go. I’ve had one night of partying already, and a second—in a row—is probably a bad idea. Paige is already squealing, though, and Rowe is walking a little slower behind us with Nate, so it all seems to come down to me. I nod a small yes, and Ty responds with a grin that stretches his entire face. Somehow, all I notice is the way his beard has grown into this really sexy stubble that only makes the dimples stand out more.
When we make it upstairs, Rowe pauses, and I can see Nate hesitating. She’s not feeling well, and I think he’s considering staying with her. But he eventually gives in and joins Paige, Ty, and me back in their room.
Ty is twenty-two, so their mini fridge is well stocked with beer and their shelves with hard liquor. Just one look at the tequila makes my stomach turn, so I make a face at him and cover my mouth. “Overdo the tequila last night did you?” he teases, and I immediately nod yes in return.
One thing I learned from my mistakes in high school is not to be embarrassed to admit I’m drunk—or that I don’t want to drink. Paige, however, seems more than willing to have a repeat performance, and she downs a few shots within the first five minutes we’re in Nate and Ty’s room.
It’s comfortable in here. Everything is darker than our room, probably because they have a blanket looped over their curtain rod to keep the room extra dark. Their space also feels more masculine. It’s void of extra stuff, only necessities and the random magazine or two.
Ty is quick to pull himself from the chair into his bed. He pulls his shoes from his feet and lets them fall to the floor before unbuckling what looks like a very expensive watch and tossing it on the dresser right next to his bed. He looks up at me when he’s done, scoots his body closer to the wall, and then pats the space next to him.
“Uh uh,” I say, surveying the small stretch of open floor, not really ready to get horizontal with Ty.
“Come on, it’s just a bed,” he says, that perfect smirk luring me. Do I want to lie next to him? Of course I do. It’s just that I’ve learned through painful experience that the easy ones never stay long—they leave scars and change the course of your life without sticking around to see the fallout. I don’t want Ty to be easy. I want him to be a challenge—slow and thoughtful. A boyfriend. Easy ones aren’t boyfriends either.
There isn’t much room on the floor, though, and I will look ridiculous if I pull over Nate’s desk chair. My stomach sinks with that dropping sensation, because I hate that I’m giving in. But I do it anyway, and I slide onto my side to face Ty, careful to keep myself at least an arm’s length away.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you bought that line. Now that I have you in my bed, I’m totally going to take advantage of you and turn you into my sex slave,” he says, only able to hold the serious look on his face for a fraction of a second before rolling his eyes.
“You’re an ass!” I say, smacking lightly against his chest, pulling my hand back quickly this time, so he can’t catch it.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, the corner of his lip curled up in that perfect way. “But I am going to kiss you again. Sometime…soonish. Just FYI.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, taking note of the pleasant flutter in my belly. I love that flutter. I haven’t felt it since before the diagnosis—since before I turned myself into a doormat for heartbreakers. “And FYI? Chicks don’t dig it when you woo them about kissing with an FYI like some five-minute business deal.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his eyes boring into me. “I get the feeling you mean business.”
“Oh, I’m all business,” I tease, pursing my lips and crossing my arms in front of my chest in defiance. I’m enjoying this game.
“Pity,” he says, rolling to his back and folding his arms behind his head. “Me? I’m all pleasure.”
FYI, you can go ahead and kiss me now.
Ty
Cassidy Owens is a goddamned goddess. I have no idea what she’s still doing in my bed, but she’s still here—I must have a shitload of karma I’m cashing in. We’ve spent the last hour talking about everything. I mean everything!
Cass likes cheeseburgers, and she dips her fries in mayonnaise. But she runs an extra two miles when she knows she’s going to eat like crap. She cares about her body, but not for vain reasons. She says she just likes to feel healthy. Usually, I’d call bullshit when a chick says something like that. Chicks always play off wanting to look hot, and they do it so you’ll tell them they look hot anyway. It’s stupid. But I really don’t think Cass gives a shit about the physical side effects of her workouts. She wants to be strong—like a killer.
She didn’t get too deep with me about soccer, but I get the sense she misses it. I’m not sure why she gave it up. From what I gathered, she would have made the team at McConnell, easily. She’s a competitor. I
understand—so am I. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss running the bases. If my body would let me round third just one more time, I would in a heartbeat. But when I brought up the idea of her training for tryouts, Cass just shrugged.
Paige passed out a few minutes ago, and I catch Nate over Cass’s shoulder, pulling the extra blanket from the box Mom sent, and tucking it under his arm.
“Dude, what are you doing?” I ask, but I already know. Nate looks at the pile of blonde hair and wrinkled silk on his bed, then at the neatly folded quilt in his arms before answering.
“Some shit just ain’t worth it, bro,” he says, grabbing my watch off the side table, which makes my stomach tense. “Gonna need the Tag tonight; have to set the alarm so I don’t miss workouts. I’ll drop it off before I leave.”
“Whatever,” I say, pretending it isn’t a big deal. I’m full of shit, though, and Nate knows it. Kelly gave me that watch, and I never go a day without it on my body.
“Yeah, I’ll still bring it back though,” he smirks, then fastens it to his wrist and quietly tiptoes out the door.
I let my eyes settle back on Cass, and she’s looking at me with what I can only describe as wonder, and it’s making me really fucking uncomfortable. Lying on my back, I flop one arm over my eyes. “Dude, you can’t look at me like that. It’s like…an invasion of privacy or something,” I say, sliding my arm down enough to see that she’s still there. Still staring.
“Stop it!” I tease, pulling the pillow from the corner of my bed and shoving it at her. When I open my eyes the second time, she’s hugging the pillow close to her body, and her stare has only grown more intense, and full of…fuck…I don’t know…fondness? “What already?”
“You love your brother,” she says. Not a question; just a statement of fact. All I do is nod yes in return, and I’m no longer embarrassed by her attention. She’s right, and I’m glad it shows. When she scoots a little closer to me, I feel my muscles tighten on instinct, and everything in me freezes. It feels like minutes pass, but I know it’s only seconds ticking by before I feel the tickle of her hair along my arm and the warm touch of her hand sliding flat over my chest until she’s completely cradled against me. I need to know what I did to deserve this moment. I need to know so that way as soon as the sun comes up, I can go do it again.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it on the outside, but Paige loves me like that too,” Cass says, her voice a whisper. I’m sure she doesn’t want to wake her sister up, but I saw the amount of shots she put down. I’m fairly confident we could invite a mariachi in to perform, and Paige would sleep straight through.
“You and Paige…are you close?” I ask, my arms still flat against the bed, though I slowly start to let my fingers relax into a curl. At this rate, I may finally get to put my arm around her by sunrise.
“We are. Sort of,” she says, stifling a chuckle. “We’re different. I know, I know—that’s pretty obvious. But we still always have each other’s backs. When Paige wanted to win homecoming queen, I campaigned for her. And when I wanted to come to McConnell, Paige stood up to my parents for me and told them they needed to loosen their grip. That’s really the only reason she’s here, you know. She came to McConnell so they’d have to let me come with her.”
“That’s kind of crappy,” I say, defensive against Cass’s parents, whom I’ve never met, and realize mid-sentence could honestly be lovely people. “I mean…why would they let Paige go away, but not you?”
Cass pauses at my question. She doesn’t even open her mouth to answer for a long time, instead reaching over to touch a loose string on my blanket—her eyes intensely staring at the string while she thinks. When she finally does speak, I can tell part of what she says is a lie. “Paige was always planning on staying in California, and my parents wanted us to both be near home. Empty-nest syndrome or something like that, I guess. But she’s better at standing up to them. She fought them so I could go,” she says, keeping her gaze locked on my chest and that damn thread. I play a lot of poker, and I know that if what she just said were really no big deal, I’d be looking into her eyes.
Lying is usually a deal-breaker for me. That’s one thing I don’t do. Do I omit the truth? Yeah, I do that all the time. But I don’t lie. But for some reason, I’m compelled to give her this one. I’m breaking the rules, my rules…for her.
“So honestly, when do I get to kiss you again?” She laughs at my harsh left turn in our conversation. I love the way she laughs. There’s this rasping sound that comes from deep inside her, showing it’s genuine, and her smile creases deeply into her cheeks.
She flops to her back, and I instantly kick myself for causing her to move away. “You’re really trying to wear me down, aren’t you?” she asks, her hand running along the side of her face until she covers her eyes, peering at me through her barely-spread fingers.
“Wow, well…I’ve never really had to wear anyone down before…” I say, shielding my slightly dented ego.
“And that’s precisely why we need to be friends, and why I can’t kiss you…” she starts, and I interrupt.
“Again,” I say.
“Right, again,” she whispers, and moves her hand back to cover her eyes. I take this opportunity to roll onto my side and really look at her, the way her lips barely part when she breathes, the small twitches they make when she fights against her body’s urge to smile, the tiny movement of her tongue as it wets her lips. I have to kiss her again.
“But…and hear me out,” I say, startling her with how close I am. She uncovers her eyes and turns to face me, scooting back a few more inches just to maintain this new self-imposed safety distance. “Maybe the fact that I am willing to work so hard just to get you to say yes makes you different.”
She stares into my eyes for several long seconds, her lips slightly parted as she considers this. “Am I? Different?” she asks.
“Now see, there’s the catch,” I say, running my thumb softly over the wrinkles in the sheet between us. “I can’t know for certain unless I kiss you again.”
“Oh really,” she says, smirking.
“Cross my heart,” I say, motioning my hand across my chest. “It’s in the handbook.”
“There’s a handbook,” she says.
“Uh, duh. There’s always a handbook,” I challenge back.
“And your handbook says you can’t tell if I’m worth your time without jamming your tongue down my throat?” she fires back.
“Wow. Again with the word slap,” I say, secretly loving this back-and-forth we’ve got going now.
“Word slap?” she questions.
“Yeah, like, you just bitch-slapped me in the face with your words. Word slap,” I say with a shrug. She holds my gaze after this and bites at the corner of her lip, her eyes squinting as she decides her next move.
“Okay, how’s this,” she says, leaning in a little closer, closing the gap in the invisible barrier she seems to have instituted when I started talking about kissing. “You can kiss me again…” I move toward her on instinct, but she’s quick to put her hand against my chest to stop me. I grip it, tightly, and meet the dare in her eyes. “But not until you mean it.”
There’s a fire in her eyes when she says this—one that I don’t disrespect, and don’t dare cross. It’s not threatening, but it’s serious, and I have this feeling churning in my stomach that Cass Owens is what Nate and I like to call a game changer. Her words have my heart racing, my mind worried that I can’t mean it enough, at least not yet. All of our playfulness from seconds before has ceased with this line she’s drawn, and I will obey it.
Holding her gaze, I lift to my mouth her hand I’ve trapped against my body, pressing my lips to her open palm. I don’t speak, and I don’t break our line of sight. But I don’t kiss her, either.
Chapter 5
Ty
My mom’s voice is consuming my ear as Cass slips out of my room with the shyest smile. Damn. I wanted to give her a proper goodbye. But that’s
the Preeter parents for you. It’s like they have a special alarm that goes off and alerts them when to interrupt the best parts.
When I was a seventh grader, Mom had this way of driving up to pick me up at school right when I was about to get handed the porno mag from the cool kid whose dad kept a boxful under his bed. And in high school, there was no sneaking the Cinemax late-night shows on the big TV. Somehow, Mom would suddenly need to sit in the living room for reading, her back “bothering her in bed.” And Dad’s no better. Though his timing always seems more aloof, he was the king of flipping on the porch light right when your hand was about to find the right place underneath a girl’s shirt.
That’s what happened when my phone chirped at ten this morning. It kept chirping. And I knew it would keep chirping until I picked up. Persistent—that’s Cathy Preeter.
“No, Ma. It’s not too early. I was awake,” I lie. I lie through my teeth. I hate lying, and I’m a total hypocrite now, but Mom doesn’t count. Not when it’s for Cass. Not that my mom would lecture me over having a girl in my bed. ‘Cause hell, this ain’t the first time she’s interrupted that! She’d lecture me for wasting my day away, not getting an early start on such a “wonderful morning.” I’d trade in a thousand sunrises to spend another night like that.
“Good, that’s my boy,” she says. I grin at her verbal pat on my head, because I love it when my mother’s proud of me—even if I made up the reason for it today. “Your dad and I are coming in for the game in two weeks. We’ve got the box. Thought it’d be nice to take you boys to dinner. You know, do that parent-spoiling thing a little.”
“Spoiling’s good,” I say, lifting a T-shirt from the floor and sniffing it to make sure it’s clean enough. It isn’t. I toss it back into the closet and try the next one, which smells a little less ripe, so I pull it over my head.